


there's just something about you i know (started centuries ago, though)

by elegiaottava



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Childhood Friends, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, Past Lives, i’m a slut for past lives aus, patroclus is my baby and i love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21925018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegiaottava/pseuds/elegiaottava
Summary: Patroclus remembers. Achilles doesn't. But that's okay.
Relationships: Achilles & Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 213





	there's just something about you i know (started centuries ago, though)

**Author's Note:**

> hello! second fic! i don't know what this is but i've tried. i've only proofread this once, so it's probably filled with mistakes. i'm sorry. i still hope you enjoy some of it, i kind of poured my heart out onto this thing. 
> 
> to nicole, who, for some reason, is supporting this. i love you :(

I.

When they’re six, Achilles gifts him a sunflower. The petals are big and thick, and his mother puts it in a vase just outside their kitchen window, in their tiny garden. Patroclus waters it every day, and he swears he can see the flower growing more and more, its head following the sun as it dawns every afternoon. 

That’s Patroclus’ favourite time of the day, when the light tints everything golden in their little kitchen and the sunflower seems to kiss the sun goodbye. He sits on the table, legs brought up against his chest, little chin resting on his thin knees, following the sunflower’s unperceivable movements, until the sun disappears behind the hill. No one really believes Patroclus can see its movements as the flower follows the sun, and no one understands how a six year old kid can be that patient. Still, every afternoon, when his mother comes back from work, her back aching and her head pounding with tiredness, it’s always to the same image: Patroclus sitting there, gaze lost, golden light hitting his cheeks. He looks peaceful, almost eerily so.

When Achilles gifts him the sunflower, they’ve known each other for two weeks. It’s summer, they’re both waiting to begin their first year of school, and when they see each other for the first time, it goes like this. 

Achilles is sitting by the water, his little feet immerged in the cold stream of the river, pebbles tickling his soles. He’s sitting there, humming to himself. The little boy is staring into the river, hoping to see any kind of fish swimming by. He’s always been attracted to the water, and he comes here often, when the day is too hot, and his friends are busy doing something else and they can’t hang out with him. He can’t wait for school to begin, he thinks, so he’ll always get to hang out with his noisy friend. Not that he doesn’t like to be alone, every now and then. But see, Achilles is six. He’s just learn how to spell his name – his dad proudly put the piece of paper on the fridge even if an L was missing – and he got a dog for his birthday. Said dog is currently jumping around in the water, coming back to his owner now and then to let him know he’s having fun by splashing freezing water onto him. Achilles giggles and splashes him back. 

Achilles is almost ready to call his dog and go back home when Taco – that’s the name of his puppy – suddenly goes still, his ears rigid, and then, just as suddenly, he starts running out of the water and into the woods on the other side of the river. Heart pounding in his chest, Achilles follows the dog, calling for him at the top of his lungs as the dog disappears behind the trees. The boy is running as fast as he can, barefoot, his shorts wet from crossing the river, his mind filled images of dad scolding him for losing his dog. But something else you need to know about Achilles, is that he’s fast. In fact, he’s the fastest runner in his group of friends, and he prides himself in being the fasted kid in town. Admittedly, his town isn’t that big, but Achilles is six, doesn’t watch the news on television when he sits at dinner with his father, and has yet to find out just how big the world really is. So, if you ask him, Achilles is the fastest boy in the whole world. 

(Funnily enough, that’s not so far from the truth.)

The important thing is: Achilles runs fast enough that he’s able to catch up to his dog when he finally comes to a halt. They’re in a small clearing – the grass under the boy’s naked feet is softer here – and, right in the middle of it, a boy that must be his age is sitting on a blanket, book in his hand forgotten as he stares at the strange couple. His mouth is gaping a little (no one has ever found him in his little reading spot) but no sound comes out of it. 

Silence stretches and sits between the little boys and minutes seem to pass like that. Everything is strangely still, even the dog doesn’t move, his head tilted to the side while he studies the boy.

Patroclus watches Achilles, his long blond hair hitting his shoulders, his clothes wet and a leash still sitting in his hand. He thinks he looks fun. He also thinks he looks familiar, like someone he must’ve read about in one of his books. 

Achilles stares at Patroclus, stares at his fingers clutching a copy of a book he can’t read the title of – he tries to anyway. The boy seems to have found the only spot in the clearing who isn’t covered by the trees’ shadow, sun hitting is dark skin and making it glow. Achilles think he looks magical, like something he dreamt about once.

The silences lasts a bit too long. And then it’s Achilles who breaks it, long strides covering the space between them, until he finds himself closer to the other boy. He offers him his hand.

“My name is Achilles. With two L’s” he says, puffing his chest out a bit. The other boy stares at his hand for a bit, hesitates, and then accepts the offer, shaking it with the smallest smile.

“Patroclus. I like your dog” his replies in a tiny voice. Taco seems to understand he’s talking about him and promptly jumps from the spot he had taken beside his owner to lick at Patroclus’ face. The boy giggles and pets him. 

“I think he likes you to. Wanna play catch with us?”

Nothing more needs to be said after that. 

They find the sunflower field the day before school starts. They’ve been playing catch for hours, running in and out of the woods. Patroclus always loses. It’s something he’s learnt to deal with, so he doesn’t really mind. This is Achilles’ thing, so he was fast to accept that he could never run as fast as his friend does. Running is Achilles’ thing. Reading is Patroclus’. They can sit for hours, sometimes in his clearing, sometimes near the water, sometimes in Achilles’ room – his dad has already come to love Patroclus – and the younger boy reads and reads and reads, while his friends listens, captured, eyes fixed on his face, as if new stories were blossoming from his delicate voice, from his mouth. Achilles secretly wishes he’ll never learn how to read for himself, so that he’ll always have Pat there to read for him. 

(They will later find out that Patroclus is not that good at reading. In fact, Patroclus is dyslexic. Despite having learnt how to read at an early age, he will hesitate with letters his whole life. Achilles just likes his voice, he just likes the fact that Patroclus seems to possess some kind of magic).

But right now, they’re running. Patroclus is the one following his friend this time, so he guesses things will go as they always go. (They’ve known each other for two weeks, but they seem to have lived together for lifetimes). He’ll run out of breath soon and he’ll have to stop, his friend will start laughing – gently, that’s how Achilles laughs at him when he does – and then they’ll trade roles. But this time, his hand reaches for Achilles’ shirt, grabs onto it, and doesn’t let go. His front actually hits Achilles’ back from the speed he was running at when his friend stopped, and he sends them both tumbling down. 

The older boy falls face first into the soil, his skin getting dirty with it, before Patroclus topples over him, gracefully falling beside him. They both grunt, but it lasts a mere few seconds before they start laughing – weakly, at first, and then louder and louder. Achilles is the first to get up and offer his hand (again) to the other boy, who frowns up at him and doesn’t accept it. 

“You’re mean, Achilles” he pouts “Why would you stop like that?”. His face got dirty, too, but his legs seem properly bruised. But Achilles is six, and he doesn’t care too much about a few scratches.

“Because” and his hands move in the air, gesticulating. Patroclus only realises he’s pointing out at something after a few moments. And then he slowly turns the other way, still sitting, and he sees it. 

In front of him – in front of them – is the sunflower field. They must have run a lot if they managed to get this far, because he’s never heard of a flower field near his house. And he’s never seen a real sunflower in his whole life. But he doesn’t really think about it then. (He will think about it later, when his parents scold him for almost getting lost with his new best friend). For now, he thinks that he has never seen anything this beautiful. The sunflowers are as tall as he his, maybe even taller, so tall he thinks they’re trees for a minute there. The light hits the sunflowers just the right way, and they’re all looking towards the same point, somewhere behind Patroclus’ shoulder. He turns around, to see what they’re all looking at.

“Oh” he murmurs, enamoured.

“What?” Achilles looks down at him. In that moment, Patroclus can’t see his face properly, because the sun is right behind him, obscuring his features and only allowing his outline to be seen.

“I think the flowers are looking at you”

A few days later, Achilles manages to convince his father to go back there with him. His father buys one of the sunflowers, one of the smaller ones who is still doing the whole following-the-sun thing, and they bring it home. 

A day later, to everyone’s confusion, he’s found a way to bring it to his new best friend’s house. His father has stopped asking him things such as “Why are you doing that?” a while ago, when he understood Achilles was too similar to his mother, too determined. So he just raises his hands in defeat when Patroclus’ parents look at them, mouths gaping, while his son stands proudly near the sunflower, asking for it to be planted as soon as possible. 

(That night, he decides to ask his son anyway. When he asks why he decided to bring such a tall flower to his friend, Achilles just shrugs and says “Patroclus likes them”).

II.

Patroclus soon finds out sunflowers don’t work that way. They’re not looking at Achilles, they’re not following his fast step – they couldn’t keep up. He soon finds out it would be silly of them to adore a simple human like that. Because isn’t that what Achilles is? A human?

Patroclus soon finds out a lot of things, and among those things, the fact that he might be a little odd. He’s been told he’s weird since he was able to understand what that meant; now that he does, though, he can’t quite understand what’s off with him. Can’t quite put his own little finger on it. His mother’s always affectionately told him he looked like a grown up since he was a toddler who couldn’t stand up on his feet by himself. She’s always told him he sometimes looks like a grandpa, thinking about the things that have happened to him in his long long life. She’s always said that gently, giggling, a kiss often following her words. Her son is just really mature for his age. That’s what she tells herself when she gets concerned about the way Patroclus always seems to be worried about something. That’s what the teachers tells her and her husband when they ask if they’ve noticed something wrong with their son. 

So, when he eventually finds out what “being weird” means, Patroclus is so used to it, that it doesn’t hurt too much. Still, he doesn’t really understand. Doesn’t understand why people think he’s strange. What’s wrong with getting lost in his thoughts sometimes? He’ll admit that sometimes things will happen to him without him really knowing their source; to be honest, things don’t really happen to him, it’s just- he often finds himself thinking about problems that don’t seem to belong to him, worrying over words and actions then he forgets as soon as he comes back to himself. So, yes, sometimes he gets a little bit serious and absorbed in his own thoughts; but doesn’t that happen to everyone?

He asks that to Achilles once. 

Achilles has just turned fifteen and Patroclus is still fourteen. They’re sitting on the carpet in Achilles’ room, their math books discarded somewhere by their feet, watching television. Achilles’ hair has kept on growing and it’s tickling Patroclus’ neck as his friend rests his head on his shoulder. 

“Achilles” he tries, his voice low, almost hoping his friend won’t hear him, so maybe he won’t have to ask him what he wants so badly to ask, won’t have to know Achilles response. But his best friends hums softly, head still, eyes still trained on his favourite show.

“What” he shifts a bit, uncomfortable – Achilles follows his movements so that his head is still resting on his shoulder – “What do you think about?”

“What?” his friend raises his head, then, and he’s looking down at Patroclus now, his blue eyes examining him, his head tilting as if he was concentrating on something.

“Like- what do you-” he grimaces – he hasn’t really planned on asking this, let alone on how to word his question – “What do you think about when you’re not doing something?”

“What kind of question is that? We’re always doing something, Pat”, he looks at him, and he almost looks concerned “Are you bored right now? We might go and get some ice cream if you w-”

“No, no. Uh. Listen- this is dumb. Forget about it okay? Let’s just watch telly” Patroclus sinks a bit lower where his back his pushed against the bed, and tries hard to concentrate on the show. He can feel Achilles’ eyes boring holes into the side of his face, but he eventually gives up and goes back to his previous position, lowering himself a bit so that now his head is resting on Patroclus’ shoulder.

Patroclus keeps feeling uncomfortable for a while, his cheeks a bit reddened and his muscles tense, but his friend feels pretty relaxed next to him, so he feels he’s already forgotten about his dumb question. He’s really trying to get back into the show when Achilles takes a deep breath and asks, softly, as if not to scare him away: “Is this about when you get a bit sad?”

Patroclus jumps a little where he’s sat, looking at his best friend a bit scared. Achilles looks at him, determined. He knows he’s said something he shouldn’t have said, something Patroclus has always kept as a secret. But Achilles couldn’t help but notice, couldn’t help but feel worried when his friend sometimes gets silent and his eyes seem unfocused, or rather focused on something that isn’t there. He can see his eyes sometimes fill with unshed tears, but has never dared to ask about it. He’s known Patroclus for what feels like forever now, and he knows that the other will go to him if he needs help, that he won’t need to be pushed. But this comes as an opportunity to Achilles, as a relief, because he now gets a possibility to understand what’s wrong

Patroclus keeps staring at him, his mouth gaping, like they’re seeing each other for the first time.

“You don’t have to worry about it, you know” he repeats the words his dad has said to him once “Everyone get a little sad sometimes. I understand” Achilles’ smile is warm. It should put him at ease. It always does. But it doesn’t work this time. 

A chill runs up Patroclus’ spine. A flash of a dream he once had, a recurrent sensation that everything he does, he’s already done. The constant feeling of living a déjà-vu. Thoughts he’s been avoiding come rushing back, intruding his mind, trying to escape, begging to be let out. He doesn’t mind the thought of being a little strange. But it does gets a bit overwhelming, sometimes. Especially when he’s with Achilles, when he touches him, when he realizes how tied together their lives really are. Especially when he can’t help but acknowledges how much he aches for Achilles to know that he feels like this. That he feels he’s overflowing with emotions, that he doesn’t think that this is normal, that he’s been trying to keep this at bay, he’s been trying to- 

“What if you don’t?” he breathes, his gaze lowering, eyes now trained on the carpet beneath their legs “What if you don’t understand? What if you can’t?”. Patroclus thinks about the first time he’s seen Achilles. He was standing there, leash in hand, posture proud, looking like one of those superheroes Patroclus used to read about in his comic books. Familiar. That’s how Achilles had looked. That’s how Achilles had felt the first time they wrestled each other and Patroclus ended up under the other’s weight. He’s pretty sure no first meeting is supposed to feel like that. He’s pretty sure his best friend couldn’t understand what he’s feeling – what he’s always felt – even if he can tell Achilles is determined. And he’s also pretty sure that he wouldn’t want to know how dependent on him Patroclus feels – like a planet orbiting around the sun, gravity pulling him in closer. Like a sunflower, face up, only warm when he’s looking at him. 

“Patroclus” soft, cold, skin touches his cheeks, as Achilles gently cups his face in both hands “Hey, you’re okay. It’s going to be okay. Whatever it is”.

Patroclus closes his eyes, seeks relief in Achilles’ touch, tries to slow his heartbeat down. A single tear slips down his heated cheek. He bites his lip, reigns the tremors in before he speaks again, already too humiliated like this.

“You always say that”

“And I’m always right, hm? Isn’t that true?” Achilles wipes the tear away.

Patroclus nods weakly. Achilles is right most of the time, but then again, Patroclus wouldn’t know any better. 

Sometimes, he thinks Achilles he’s everything he’s ever known.

Sometimes, he thinks he’s know Achilles for so long, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he ever found himself without him by his side. 

Sometimes, he thinks he’d know him blind. He thinks he’d know him at the end of the world.

Sometimes, he thinks – no, he knows – he’d known Achilles even before Achilles showed up in his life.

III.

In front of him, the plain seemed to go on and on and on forever, until it abruptly stopped at Troy’s walls, in front of their feet. That’s where the Trojans were, almost impossibly still and silent, as if preparing to attack. And Patroclus knew, that was what was going to happen. At the sound of the horn, at that horrible, scorching sound, they would attack, and their army would attack back, sure and mighty, driven by the blessing of Athena. Patroclus was preparing himself for that moment, too, his heart pounding against his chest, against the heavy armour Achilles had put on his shoulders. 

Achilles.

Achilles was there, as always, the only thing Patroclus would never dare to doubt. He was standing there, his large shoulders almost covering Patroclus behind him, as if protecting him from the scenery in front of them. As if he could protect him from the blades, and Trojans’ snarling faces, and their blind violence. Patroclus wished that being there, being behind him, near him, almost safe in what was going to happen, could’ve made him feel better. But he couldn’t feel better, when he knew Achilles was that exposed, when he knew his best friend, his lover, his soulmate was Trojan’s chosen target, the one they were going to throw themselves at as soon as the chance would come.

The men who were surrounding them were of the best league, he knew it. Knew that they were going to do their best to keep their most important weapon alive, to keep him battling and killing. And he could see that now, too. He could see them vibrating with excitement, could imagine their expressions angry and determined under their helmets. And Patroclus raised his face, his own helmet pressing his head back, his neck already hurting from the weight of it, his eyes pleading at the sky. “Please” he prayed “Please keep him safe. Please let him live. He’s good. He’s so good. He’s so much better than this”

And then the loud sound of the horn echoed in the whole valley. Patroclus felt his body being pushed forward by the men around him, he felt his legs moving, felt blood rushing to his ears and-

“Pat” a hand is keeping his head up, fingers moving softly in his hair “Patroclus, come on”.

Pa-tro-clus. 

“There he goes. That’s my boy” his head is moved and then he realises he is lying on the ground, blades of grass tickling his neck “Yeah, don’t worry, I’ve got him”. His legs are raised up, his feet resting on something hard. Nausea and dizziness are filling his throat. He turns his head to the right, his cheek resting on the cold ground. 

“Baby” Achilles’ voice is nearer, now, clearer. Achilles is there, he’s safe. He’s safe, right? “Sweetheart, Patroclus, I’m here”. 

Sweetheart. Philtatos. 

Patroclus opens his eyes, and the first thing he sees is a pair of shoes too colourful, too close to his face. He needs to close his eyes again. He turns his face to the other side and breathes out. He can still feel his heart beating, he can still feel the armour pressing against his chest, pressing down against his ribcage. He can still hear the excited murmuring of the myrmidons standing at his sides.

Achilles’ cold hand touches his right cheek and he pushes back against it. 

Please. Please, protect him. I need him. He doesn’t deserve this.

“Sweetheart. Can you look at me?” Achilles’ thumb caresses his skin, reaches his eyelid. Gentle, always so gentle with him. Gentle even when he was putting his armour on Patroclus’ shoulders, delicate even when he was coming back from a battle, his face cover in blood. Sweet, when he asked Patroclus if he could take a bath with him. Tender, when he kissed him at night. 

Patroclus needs to see him, needs to be sure he’s still there, needs to know he’s safe. He opens his eyes, light and colours hurting his eyes once more. But this time he forces himself to endure the pain. As he fixes his eyes on him, on the man he loves, he realizes a little group of people has gathered around them, curious. This reminds him of something, too, like almost everything does, but he can’t put his finger on what exactly. He only knows he needs to get somewhere safer, somewhere else where Achilles will hold him and calm him down, where it can be just them, just him and his beloved. 

Achilles is kneeling right next to him, a smile reaching up to his eyes.

“Hello, sleeping beauty”

“Achilles” he breathes, pained. 

“I know” recognition flashes in the other eyes, “I’m helping you get up, but don’t you dare make anything dumb like moving too fast”

“Won’t” he promises. 

Achilles helps him get up, at first in a sitting position and then, slowly, as people finally decide to walk away, they manage to get him on his feet again. “There you go”

“I fainted” he states, like he’s found out something Achilles doesn’t already know. Achilles giggles at him and waves his hand at the couple who is still looking at them, hoping they will get the message.

“Yes, you did, so I don’t think I’m taking you to your Philology class now, right?” a kiss falls on his cheek, too close to his mouth to be a comforting gesture from a friend. Patroclus nods weakly and then Achilles is taking him to his car.

Patroclus is lying awake in his bed, in their bed, and he’s staring at the wall, has been staring at the wall for hours. Achilles has left the room when he thought Patroclus had finally fallen asleep. He won’t lie and say he doesn’t miss the way he was being held, but being alone like this is nice, sometimes. He feels like he’s never alone.

Patroclus thinks he doesn’t even have the energy to cry, too worn out by this. To be honest, he thinks with a bit of shame, a bit of guilt, he doesn’t even have enough energy left to bear Achilles’ presence. A knot has formed in his stomach, but he knows he’s not going to vomit. It’s too much, and he doesn’t think he can’t take this anymore, even with Achilles on his side trying to understand this. There’s too much to think about, to remember, too much memories filling his thin body up. Sometimes he thinks that’s all he is. All of his memories. Memory of this life, building up every day; and memories of another life, coming back to him in a rush, in his dreams, every time someone raises their voice at him, every time Achilles holds on to him with a little too much desperation. 

When things like this happen, when he faints in public, when he wakes up sobbing from a dream, when he suddenly starts crying in the middle of dinner, Achilles always rushes them to bed, covers him up in blankets, and cuddles up to him. Only after Patroclus has calmed down, only then, he asks:

“What happened this time?”

And Patroclus, with a trembling voice and tears still threatening to spill, starts to tell him their own story. He tells him about Chiron, about Iphigenia, about the Trojans and their shining armours, about the figs and the moon. He tells him how people used to scream his name, in fear, in adoration. And Achilles always hums quietly, listening as if he were listening to a story.

But lately, he can’t stand it. Can’t stand how every time, almost every day now, he has to tell Achilles what he’s dreamt about, what he’s seen. He can’t stand the way Achilles can be so detached from all of it. He can listen to his stories all he wants, but he will never know them as well as Patroclus does. He will never have to hear the screams, and the cries, and the pleading. 

But above all, what Patroclus thinks his heart can’t bear anymore, is the feeling of having fallen in love with Achilles twice, and then some more. The frustration of not being allowed to share what has been piling up in his heart for centuries. Every time he looks at Achilles, he knows they’re not bearing the same weight, he knows Achilles has lived half the life he’s lived, has loved him half the time he’s loved him back. He wishes he could show him everything, he wishes he could truly share with him how it felt when they kissed for the first time – not the time they kissed for the first time by the lake, after school, but hidden in the dark, hoping Chiron wouldn’t find them like that. He aches, because he can never communicate all of this to Achilles, can never explain what it means to have lived so much. 

Why him? Why not the both of them?

“Ah, I knew you were just pretending” Achilles is leaning against the doorframe, his silhouette dark against the light coming from the hallway. His voice is a bit sad, like he’s offended Patroclus pretended to sleep in order to get away from him. 

“’M sorry, tired” he mumbles, feeling a bit guilty. He closes his eyes and he hears Achilles slowly approaching the bed.

“Is it okay if I stay here?” 

Patroclus nods, and Achilles must notice the movement, because a second later the duvet is shifting and Achilles is behind him, not quite spooning him, but close enough that Patroclus can feel his warmth. They stay like that, silent for some minutes. Achilles doesn’t ask. But he does say something.

“I hope” he hesitates, clears his voice, shifts a bit “I hope I’m the one who remembers next time”

Patroclus stops breathing for a second. He tenses up, and then he abruptly turns to him, searching for his eyes in the dark. They’re there, already looking back, that determined stare Achilles sometimes gets when it comes to them. They seem sincere.

“I don’t ever want to forget you” he reaches a hand out, wiping at the tear that has made its way down Patroclus’s cheek “So I hope I’m the one who gets to remember everything about this life. I could tell you everything, Patroclus. I will. I will remember the next time we meet, when cars will fly and teleportation will already have been invented.” Patroclus chuckles wetly at that, manages to get one of his hands out of the duvet and touch Achilles’ chest.

“I haven’t forgotten a single thing. I still remember about the strawberry cake, and the surprise party and the pool. I still remember the time you lost your first teeth, and when you taught me to tie my shoes. I remember the sunflower. And I will tell you, Patroclus, I will tell you all of it”

Patroclus is crying now, his sight blurry and his face starting to become puffy as it always does, but he still leans forward to kiss Achilles anyway. Achilles kisses him back, reverent, relieved.

“Philtatos” he murmurs, when their lips part “You’re my most beloved. That, I will always remember”

“You will?” Achilles’ eyes are searching for something in his. 

“Of course I will. I could I ever forget? I am made of memories”

**Author's Note:**

> please please please leave kudos / comment if you've enjoyed this, i am an insecure baby and i need validation to survive
> 
> (yes, the title is a kesha reference)


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